


Compassion

by shadow13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Scar porn, Vaginal Fingering, and now we get to the sexy bits, messed up adorableness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow13/pseuds/shadow13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa accidentally stumbles upon the Master of Coin at his most vulnerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ocularis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocularis/gifts).



> For Ocularis, who is obsessed with that scar.

“ _Really_ , Sansa, could you _be_ less graceful?”

“My apologies, Your Grace.”

“Ha! Perhaps my lady should instead be my little buffoon.” Sansa colored at the King's laughter, stooping to pick up pieces of the shattered inkwell while his mother scowled.

“Queens move smoothly and with elegance, my dear,” the Queen Regent reminded her, not even calling over a servant yet. “Surely I don't need to remind you of  _that_ .”

“I say, she's quite ruined your doublet, Littlefinger,” the King was smirking, leaning back on the cushions of his chair as he finally snapped his fingers for a servant to come and mop up the quickly spreading ink. “New, was it?”

The man had not dropped his affable smile once since the Stark girl had accidentally knocked the ink pot from the table, but there was a tightness in the creases of the corners of his eyes that seemed to betray some tension. “I can scarcely recall, Your Grace.”

“My graceless future queen, clumsy as an Ironborn hussy out of water.” Sansa bit the inside of her cheek so hard she thought it might bleed. “Well,  _stand back,_ girl – I don't want you blackened over like some Essosi slave wench.”

“No, Your Grace,” the girl whispered, the tips of her fingers already stained. She would scrub later and try to fight back tears at the memory of the moment. It was just that their cruelty was so  _senseless_ . Sansa hadn't  _meant_ to knock over the inkwell; Joffrey was the one who had demanded she stay at the table while the Master of Coin updated his King on finances being pulled for another reckless, hedonistic feast. Joffrey seemed to believe if he cavorted as deeply as his father, then no one would think his reign insecure. Sansa wanted to scoff and sneer at him. Instead, she was silent. 

“Truly,” Littlefinger was assuring, whether more to the King or to herself, Sansa was unsure. “It's of no matter at all. Though if Your Grace would permit me to change and return after he enjoys the noonday meal...”

“Yes, yes, no sense having a soaked coin-counter,” the boy snorted, his ringed fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. “You're dismissed.” Lord Baelish gave one of his half-mocking bows, his green eyes lingering for just a fraction of a moment on Lady Sansa's face; was it a look of pity there, of understanding? Or amusement only? He was so strange and unreadable, the little lord from the Fingers. “I suppose I should thank you.” Sansa was startled out of her thoughts by Joffrey's lazy drawl. “Your idiotic antics provide the only amusement in this stupid city.”

Sansa's head bent, her eyes on her lap, where her fingers tried to hide their stain. “I seek only to be of service to you, Your Grace.”

“Well, obviously. Everyone should. I could do with a grand feast day,” he yawned, stretching out an arm in a way he probably considered quite lionish, and to Sansa only fanned his wine-fouled breath to her. She held her own breath a moment. “It's been so gods damnably dull around here.”

“Joffrey-” The Queen didn't really scold, it was too late in the boy's upbringing for that. Instead, she interjected, and here she was – as was customary – ignored.

“I'd be having a great deal more amusement out on the front lines with Grandfather. I bet it's great fun, slaughtering Starks and Tullys.” The boy grinned at her. How had she ever thought she loved him?

Sansa, though, kept her tone as even and perfect as glass. “And so you should, Your Grace. I have no doubt my traitor brother's lines would break merely seeing you upon the field. Will you go to them and rally your soldiers, my King?”

The grin quickly dropped into a scowl. “Don't be stupid, Sansa, you know the city needs me here.”

“On the subject of the fighting.” Cersei's voice was very low, her hand slowly going to cover her child's. “We really need to discuss what will happen if Stannis breeches the-”

“He's not  _going_ to breech anything!” The young King yanked his hand away from his mother's touch, venomous and eyes bright with cruelty. “He couldn't breech his own wife with a stallion's cock for his own!” Cersei's eyes closed at his vulgarities, Sansa swallowed hard. 

“It's just that if you're meeting with members of your council-”

“I'll meet with who I choose and when I choose it! I am the King!” It was at this moment that servants entered with trays for the noonday meal, silver platters steaming with choice cuts that came from Sansa knew not where. “Not now!” the King snapped, even as the girl tried to ignore the rumbling in her stomach. “I am not to be disturbed in the middle of my  _plans_ – wait.” As soon as the startled and abused servants had turned to scuttle back, they stopped as suddenly in their tracks. “No. No, we'll discuss the matter over luncheon.” Joffrey seemed to find this amusing, for he smirked again. “Mockingbird's sing prettily when you feed them, do they not?”

Sansa picked her head up. “You already told Lord Baelish not to return until after you'd supped.”

“Then we'll  _go and fetch him_ , won't we?” A servant bowed to do just this, but his monarch snapped at him with fingers encrusted in ruby rings. “No, not you. My Lady Sansa can go and do it, since she is  _so eager_ to serve.”

Sansa stood, barely keeping hold of the outrage in her belly; to send her about like some raven carrying notes. And with dinner being served right before her. Still, if it was an excuse to escape Joffrey and his mother, if only for a few minutes...The girl curtseyed prettily and quickly made her escape.

The Stark maiden did not need to be directed to the quarters of the Master of Coin, though it was not a part of the Keep she had ever spent any time in. Lord Baelish's suite of rooms intersected with those of Lord Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle, very near to the Tower of the Hand – and this Sansa skirted as widely as possible, lest she feel the familiar lump rising in her throat. She wondered, occasionally, if she might not still wake from this monstrous nightmare and find the waiting arms of her Lord Father, ready to embrace and shush her in her ancestral home – but such fantasies were for children, not for women grown and soon to be wed.

Sansa found and approached the proper door, quite ordinary in its appearance. Gently and delicately – with  _grace_ , for she was far more elegant than the nastiness of Queen Cersei would ever credit – she rapped her fingers upon the worn, smooth wood of the door and waited for a response; and yet, none came. Sansa hesitated. “Lord Baelish?” Still nothing. “My lord?” What should she do? Intrude upon the lord's private abode? It seemed unthinkable, yet worse still it would be for her to return to her waiting sovereign with her task unfulfilled. Sansa swallowed and tilted her chin up, gathering her Stark reserve – and she opened the door.

This was not particularly extraordinary, as the threshold was equally empty, but a few quick, soft steps inward, her voice asking, “Lord Baelish, are you here?” and she turned to find herself in the solar proper – and Lord Baelish himself, half undressed, his stained doublet over the back of a chair and his gold tunic (also darkened with ink, though not so badly) completely unlaced and leaving him bare to the waist. Sansa stopped and went stiff, entirely too shocked to even apologize.

The two stood regarding each other in near-dumbfounded silent; Baelish may have even been slightly slack jawed to be found in so intimate a pose. The girl's eyes, however she did not intend them to, were drawn over the figure of the lord, half undressed as he was – and to the immense scar that bifurcated his torso. A horrible thing to behold, jagged like a bolt of lightning, pink in some places and pale in others. It just clipped his collarbone – was this why he customarily wore such high collars? – and ran the length of him to stop but an inch above the hip, making an arc across his abdomen. Sansa felt stupefied in the face of such a violent scar, it seemed to her the equal of the Hound's, worn as it was by a man unaccustomed to fighting. Foolishly, but out of a desperation to be in some way comforting or helpful, she stammered, “My lord...a-are you injured?”

Lord Baelish did not bat an eye at this rather strange response to his own, skin-deep stain. Indeed, he seemed on the defensive, shoulders bent inward, manner stiff. “It is a very old wound, my lady.”

Sansa's fingers reached forward without her knowing quite why, as if she may in some way help – as if there was comfort in finding someone in King's Landing who might be even more wretched than herself. “May I see it?”

“Very little to see, I'm afraid.” His pupils became darker as the girl drew closer. “Really. Truly.  _My lady_ .” His voice nearly cracked at this last note, Sansa's fingers having landed on the edges of his tunic, which he gripped with a kind of religious fervor. 

Sansa stood, transfixed, staring at the wound some time, alight with the strange desire to feel it beneath the pads of her fingers. She had not touched a man's skin before, aside from the sweat slicked arms of her brother or father, and she found the compulsion strange, yet nevertheless real. The Lord's skin was not like that of the King, all soft with baby fat. His torso was taught, lean, with not a spare ounce of flesh upon him, the skin hardened with age and maturity. She thought he might be smooth if she were to touch him, especially along that scar. The girl's eyes flicked up to catch his own; was it her imagination, or had he been shutting them tightly for a moment, as if wincing? “Who did this terrible thing to you, my lord?” Her voice was soft, like how she used to speak to Lady when she was nothing more than a suckling pup.

Baelish's eyes opened again, greener than the girl had ever seen them before – though she was not sure she had ever been so close as this before, either. “Did your mother not tell you?” His voice was little more than a breath against her cheek.

“What should she tell me?”

The lord's grip loosened on his tunic, the fabric sliding open even farther, and his fingers ran against the girl's own. Sansa stood very still, merely breathing and observing. “Why, your lordly uncle bested me on the field of glorious combat.”

“Uncle Edmure would do such a thing to you?”

The smile upon his face, the smirk, seemed almost  _sad_ . “No, my sweet. The other house, Brandon Stark.”

“But...but why? For what purpose? Brandon was a trained warrior, what cause would he have to fight you?”

“Amusement, perhaps?” The lord's tone was intended to be dry, but to Sansa, it seemed infinitely vulnerable. She had never seen a man so undone. She wanted to smooth her hands over him, to soothe him the way ladies did; and she even tried, a hand going to the torso and stroking. Lord Baelish hissed, and Sansa hesitated.

“D-does it still pain you?”

“Yes and no.” His voice was strained, but his eyes were opened, focused on her innocent face. “This is not a sight for lovely young maidens.”

Sansa bristled slightly. “I'm not afraid of flesh.”

“Should you not be? Your family saw fit to do this. Do you disagree?”

“I'm  _not_ my family.” She hesitated as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “Not  _just_ my family, at any rate.”

Lord Baelish seemed almost amused, or was that the mask he wore to protect himself – the way he protected this secret, through layers of silk and cloth-of-gold? “Then what are you, Sansa, sweetling?”

That was...a question she did not know the answer to. But if her family had done this, then who else could make it right but her? “I am sorry,” her voice was a low whisper, her blue eyes wide and dark. “I'm sorry for this.”

“I do not blame the innocent for the faults of their dead relatives.”

“B-but, I-”

“There's nothing to forgive, Sansa.”

The girl hesitated a moment, considering. “Still.” A short silence passed between them. “I would not have hurt you.” And without knowing entirely why, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against the jagged mark.

Lord Baelish did not hiss this time. He did not even move. Sansa hesitated, drawing her lips away; oh gods, he was thinking how  _foolish_ she was, without a doubt! If he breathed a word of this back to the King-

But the eyes of the Master of Coin were fixed on her face in such a way that she felt her fears melt slowly from her; this was not a feeling of safety, that she had done the right thing, merely that Lord Baelish would not harm her, personally or obliquely. His eyes were deep malachite in the afternoon light, and Sansa felt herself rooted to the spot under his stare-

Until his free hand found her chin and tilted her face up, and his mouth met hers.

Nor was this kiss a purely chaste one. Oh, it started out proper enough, merely his lips against her own, firm and yet somehow surprisingly soft. Sansa went stiff in her surprise, but she did not pull away. Either out of a desire to please or a  _desperate_ appreciation for comfort after so much abuse, she found she pressed her mouth against his own as well, an unskilled reply for a kiss, but one done with earnest and innocent intent. She gasped slightly to find Lord Baelish's other hand at the small of her back, pulling her closer, and her hands landed on his bare chest in order to steady herself. A soft moan escaped his throat, a heady sound she had been in no way expecting from a mere  _kiss_ , and she then felt the wet press of his tongue teasing at her mouth. She didn't know what to do; he seemed to wish to enter her mouth, and strange a thought as it was, she had come too far to push away like a scared little girl. She parted her lips before his advancement and soon felt the damp muscle encircling her own. It was enough to make Sansa's eyes closed, confusion and heat building in her core in a way she found both nerve-wracking and pleasant simultaneously. She had no idea how long this dance of intimacies went on, did not even know he had moved her against a wall to better position her until the heavy knock at the door startled them out of their reverie. 

Sansa's fingers dug into his skin for a moment, but Baelish did not even wince, voice cold toward the unseen intruder even as his fingers were warm against her waist. “What is it.”

“My Lord, the King is  _demanding_ your presence!”

“I'll be there....momentarily.” His eyes flicked to Sansa, still in his arms – and he quickly released her, stepping back and re-fastening his tunic; no one would see the stains beneath a fresh doublet in any case. “There's a second entrance to the left of the brazier,” he said, voice rough as his head nodded in the proper direction. “Go through it and you'll arrive outside the garden. It's a short walk back to the hall from there.”

Sansa's fingers played nervously at her stomach. “W-what am I to say?”

“That you could not find me and thought to look elsewhere.” When her chin dropped, his fingers found her again; strange how pleasant that sensation was. “What troubles you?” And his voice was shockingly gentle, nothing like the smirking, mocking Mockingbird that bowed before the King. Which was the true one, she wondered? Which had Sansa kissed just then?

“Whatever I do or say, His Grace will have something to say about it.”

The man's mouth twitched at the corner, moving his beard with it. “Mm, and nothing good, either.” Sansa tensed slightly, as though they could be overheard (and, well, it was always possible), but Lord Baelish seemed unconcerned. “I'll fix it. Trust me.” Trust him? A man she barely knew, a man who collaborated with the very people who had cleaved her father's head from his shoulders?

...It was, however, less mad a notion than kissing such a man. Sansa nodded, watching the near-stranger pull on a clean doublet of dark, forest green silk, soft, round patterns woven into the cloth. Their eyes caught and lingered for just a moment before the lord turned and strode out his chamber door. Sansa was left standing, absurdly alone, in another man's private abode. Strange how comforting it felt, too.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been done for a while, but my beta is SLOW COUGH COUGH. And I had to post something to express my feels after the season finale. You can find out my actual feels at shadow13dickpistons.tumblr.com

“Oh!” Sansa paused at the threshold to the council chambers, her small hand placed hesitantly against the heavy door. “I...I was told His Grace had requested my presence...”

            “So he did.” It was Lord Baelish – and _only_ Lord Baelish – who was left in the council chambers now. He had yet to look at her, bent over the table and collecting various pieces of parchment into a leather satchel with a mockingbird stamped on the cover. Sansa could see even from this distance that the tips of his fingers were stained with ink, and it reminded her of the doublet she'd nearly ruined (he had assured her that with vigorous work by devoted servants, the damage had not been of a permanent kind). She did not know why, but it made her blush.

            They had spoken little since that day in his solar more than a week ago; Sansa had little cause to see anyone, spending most of her time in her room, or alone in the garden, sewing, reading, praying for Robb to come...That the incautious kiss had not been mentioned by Lord Baelish was wise, it was a good thing – and yet it was also strange, for surely she had not had so _little_ an effect upon the man for him to forget the stolen moment entirely? Sansa didn't know which she hoped for more.

            ….Still, she wasn't going to bring it up either.

            Knowing this, Sansa's fingers hesitated against the door, while one hand moved to knot at the silk tie about her waist. Lord Petyr's eyes finally lifted to her own as the silence continued, appraising her with the cool, unemotional eye he was so well known for. “You don't need to stand there so nervously, my lady. You may come in.”

            Sansa did so, though she little knew why, just a few steps deeper into the council chambers, the heavy door swinging solidly shut behind her. “It's just...His Grace-”

            “I understand,” and the little man smirked as he said it, at last straightening and fastening the latch on his case, “that he has called up his Hound and a few retainers to accompany him on a hunt.” A hunt. King Robert and the boar...Littlefinger must have been able to read her thoughts, or else her eyes betrayed them, her shallow breathing, for his smirk strengthened on his mouth. “No doubt the summons...slipped his mind. He has so much to think on these days.”

            “Y-yes...I had better wait for him here.” Sansa was quick to recover, blinking hard to try to clear the traitorous thoughts from her mind, as if they were stitched onto her gown for all to read. Her hand traced the carvings of one of the heavy, ornate chairs. Which one was the seat of the Hand, which one had her lord father sat? Which one did Lord Baelish occupy. “Or perhaps I should wait outside his chambers, if he has forgotten...He might become angered, if I am not waiting when he returns...”

            “We can't have that.” Lord Petyr's tone was pitying, but his eyes shone with amusement. Sansa didn't know why, but this irritated her somehow, like an itch beneath the skin. “What if you wait here, and I shall post someone with a view of the road, so that when His Grace returns, you can be alerted?”

            The Stark maiden perked up slightly. “It wouldn't inconvenience you, Lord Baelish?”

            “Not in the slightest.” He was still smiling as he drew closer to her, but Sansa couldn't see it in his eyes at all. They seemed....deep. For a moment, almost sad, silver and grey and threaded with green. Such strange eyes he had, and she wondered how much came from his Braavosi heritage. She saw him glance about the room, taking stock of she knew not what, and then her study of his features ceased-

            Lord Petyr's thin fingers wrapped behind her elbows, pulling Sansa closer to him, and his mouth found hers again, just like before, in his inner sanctum.

            Sansa wasn't exactly stiff beneath the kiss, but she certainly hadn't been expecting it. It wasn't as long as before, his tongue never quite brushing her lips – yet even so, it felt full, like there was a sense of _longing_ behind it, and his narrow fingers dug into her silk-clad skin with near-desperation. He parted after a moment, his eyes dark, studying her face, and all Sansa could do was catch her breath.

            Lord Baelish said nothing. He took in her kiss-reddened lips, her darkened eyes – collected his satchel and left the council chamber.

            Sansa remained to wait for word that the King had returned from his hunt, and her fingers occasionally brushed her lips to see when the swelling might finally ease.

 

* * *

 

 

            It happened again.

            Sansa took long walks through the Keep's gardens, its godswood. It used to be that the Seven were the gods she turned to in times of trouble, but seeing the face of the weirwood tree, even this far south, was like seeing a glimpse of home through a windowpane; it was distant, yet better than nothing, and in the early morning hours, the heat wasn't so oppressive. She wasn't watched as closely here, she could close her eyes and pretend that she wasn't a pretty bird in a gilded cage – that everything was beautiful once more.

            Tall, tall rows of shrubbery made of the garden a kind of maze; rhododendrons in every possible color at one side, another of boxwoods, another of roses. The heat gave to the air a heavy perfume of the flowers in their riotous colors, and this, along with the sun nearing its zenith, made the girl's steps slow and her eyes heavy. It was like something out of a dream, then, when she heard the hoarse whisper of her name to her left.

            She started slightly. “Lord Petyr.” He was shrouded in the low vines of a wisteria, each branch a tendril that reached toward the ground and dripped with violet flowers so thick, they could have been clusters of grapes. She could see a few petals in his hair, dusted along his shoulders broadened by a well-cut half cape of red velvet. On so many other men the flowers would have looked comical, even with his humorless mouth, the intense stare of his unblinking eyes. Somehow, on him, it was suitable.

            The strange, small man spoke not a word in reply, simply reached out to Sansa – his fingers wrapping her wrist in a loose, easy grip – and pulled her to him; gently, and not like Joffrey's horrible yanks. Before she could give a yes, a no, a word of any understanding at all – another kiss.

            This one was gentler, like the flower petals that were now raining down onto her soft cheeks, tickling her nose and causing her closed eyes to twitch slightly. His fingers moved from her wrist, to her arms, and then slowly around to her back, holding her, and yet not clutching; nothing tight, nothing urgent, nothing _grasping_. It was...nice – like Sansa could tear away at any moment and he would do nothing to force her. She...she liked that.

            The kiss did end eventually, though Petyr hardly pulled away. He was taller than she was by, perhaps, half an inch, yet how Septa Mordane had said she was growing every day – tall and willowy, like a red iris to sway in the breeze. She would certainly match his height soon, perhaps even surpass it. That was an odd thought, she always thought men were to be taller than the ladies they wooed. Even so, it hardly seemed to matter. Petyr had yet to let her go, hardly even pulled away from her, his eyes searching her face, her own dozy blues, lingering on the ripe curve of her lips...Without a word, he bent to kiss her again.

            Would this go on all afternoon? She idly half-wondered it, even as her fingers quested slowly upward to wrap her arms about his neck. The velvet of the half cape was _so soft_ beneath the skin of her arms, it prompted a soft noise in her throat – one that made Petyr press into the kiss ever so slightly, his tongue just teasing her lips. Well, why not? Quite frankly, it had been intoxicating-ly pleasant when his tongue had twined with her own during that first kiss in his solar. If she was going to be wooed by a man, she might as well drink of him to the full. Sansa's lips parted beneath his own and she could feel the stutter of his breath against her cheek as she did, as if he could hardly believe what was offered beneath his mouth. Petyr's tongue was gentle, almost hesitant, and the soft, near-lazy pace of it made Sansa lean into his embrace, enjoying the heat that built between their bodies rather than finding it discomforting.

            There was a slight whimper when they at last parted – from her or from him, she could hardly tell. Lord Petyr's mouth, she noted this time, however, looked as bruised as hers always felt when they exchanged these very strange intimacies. He was staring at her the way a man looks on a piece of artwork, a rendering of his god – and she _liked_ the way her skin prickled to be so highly noted. They stood in silence for several moments, catching breath, cooling skin and saying nothing. Petyr leaned in just once more, whispered “My lady,” almost against her mouth, barely brushing her lips with his own-

            But then he parted the wisteria vines with his thin hands the way water parted in a fall, striding out with a harder look to his eye, a look made ready to face the rest of the mad, cruel world.

            Sansa, for her part, decided to wait for a moment beneath the shade of the wisteria, enjoying its beauty, its soft scent. For one thing, it was cooler here, and for another, this world wasn't like the one outside. This world was a gentle one, with gentle touches and quiet words. And besides...if anyone saw them leave together, there might be talk.

            Sansa did not think she had done anything so wrong she ought to worry what other people _observed_.

            …..but then again, perhaps it was merely practical.

 

* * *

 

 

            She had _planned_ for none of this. In an upbringing structured around traditions, modeled after songs and stories, this fit nothing quite well enough, like a worn sweater passed down from an older sibling with the stitching all stretched to shapelessness. She could find no title for it beyond that of a _lover_ , which was a frightening concept; she was, after all, promised to King Joffrey, First of His Name. Were they already wed, this would constitute treason. Was it any different if they were merely betrothed, and the love affair consisted only of sudden kisses in strange locations? Sansa couldn't be quite sure.

            Yet even so – and perhaps this was foolish – she found she could not seem to worry over it much. Petyr had said to trust him, that he would fix things, that first afternoon, when the matter had first gone out of hand. He had said that, and then he had continued to seek her out, so surely his intentions to shield these actions had not changed? After all, were they caught out, he'd be no less guilty than she, even if he had the benefit of not being considered of a traitor's blood. If she were honest, it left Sansa with an uneasy feeling – but his lips had been the first comfort she'd felt, the first moment of pure, white peace since Ser Ilyn had cleaved her father's head from his shoulders. It simply reached a point where she could hardly care for the danger of it when the benefits were so ripe with _gentleness_.

            And this strange romance continued on. At first, Sansa might only run into the Master of Coin once in a seven-day, and even then, there were occasions that were only marked by his fingers lingering on her arm a moment too long. This, however, began to swiftly change; soon, reliably, he would find her out wherever she was – and he always somehow knew when she would be alone, when her maids were occupied, when the King was on the opposite side of the Keep. She did not know where he got this intelligence, but she understood very little about the Lord Baelish, in truth. How much of him did she really know? Yet even so, his lips would brush hers, and her own would respond, it was no longer a matter of thought. There were times when the movement was a quick one, almost chaste, and others where the small lord would linger, holding her gently in his arms, his fingers entangled with the loose ends of her hair, his mouth a tender, easy slide against her own. During these times, Sansa’s knees would feel weak when he at last released her, and if she chanced to see him among company, his eyes glinted a tad more mischievously. This was becoming very foolish indeed.

            And oh, but was Lord Petyr growing bolder! He and Grand Maester Pycelle joined herself and the Queen for tea at Her Grace’s invitation, and in front of the whole party he offered to loan Sansa one of his books when she expressed no more than polite interest in its subject. Cersei murmured about how overly generous the Master of Coin was, but it wasn’t until she went to Lord Baelish’s quarters again that she understood his true intentions, and _generosity_ was not, perhaps, the best term for his motives.

            “Lady Sansa!” He was absolutely _grinning_ at her, the man had no restraint whatsoever. It surprised the maiden, given how quiet, how almost moody he generally was when he lingered in her embrace. “I am so delighted you decided to read the tome. I am quite certain you’ll find it educational.”

            Sansa felt strangely embarrassed, and tried to hold herself straighter, her hands tucked together beneath the long folds of her sleeves. “A queen should educate herself to better serve her king.”

            “I could not agree with you more, my lady,” he smiled at her more quietly now, but still with that mischievous glint of silver in his eyes. It seemed to the girl there was something deeply untrustworthy about that, though she couldn’t quite say why. “I will tell you, there are several passages here that quote a text in High Valyrian. Are you familiar with the language?” Sansa hated to admit she was not…but she had to give her head a little shake, no. “It isn’t much, and you can skip over it. But if you come here, I can show you the different sections and give you their general meaning.” The Stark girl stepped up to the desk, but Petyr was motioning her around. “It’s quite small writing. Come around and we can look upon it together.” She kept one blue eye cautiously fixed on the man as she came around the solid desk – what could his game be? – but finally she stood side by side with the Master of Coin, looking down at the book that lay open upon the tabletop. He was correct, the print was quite small, and Sansa leaned forward to get a closer look. “You’ll notice this word quite often – it’s the word for the Doom. If you can recognize it, you’ll be able to glean much more of the meaning of the passage even if you forget everything else.” And he was about to give a brief overview of each quotation-

            When his palm fit warm and full against her waist.

            Sansa almost jumped out of her skin, whirling a foot or so away from the unexpected touch. “Lord Baelish!”

            “Lady Sansa?” He looked quite legitimately confused, almost hurt. “Is something troubling you?”

            Was she mad, or was he? Why should it worry her so to have his palm against her waist, when she’d been in the man’s arms, when their tongues had twined illicitly together? But there was something so much more intimate to that touch, something so much closer, and unexpected. A kiss was one thing, it could be anything at all. But his hand against her…No, however he might spin this lie of his, there was only thing that could be.

            “I…” She hesitated. “I just remembered, I promised Her Grace I would show her my progress on my needlepoint, of the King’s arms.” Lord Baelish had raised his eyebrow at her. “It was very stupid of me to forget, I know, please forgive me.”

            “Well, take the book with you in any case.” He held it out to her – from a safe distance, and Sansa haltingly reached forward. “If you have any trouble with the Valyrian, you are always welcome to seek me out – at any time.” She took the tome from him – and the lord’s thumb brushed her nails. Sansa almost shivered, but remembered to thank him before rushing out of his study.

            For several days and nights together, the book sat on her bedside table. It was often the last thing she saw before closing her eyes, and the first thing that greeted her in the morning. Nor did she touch it, going so far as to climb into bed on the side opposite it. This was all because of the thought that dominated her when she curled beneath the sheets: _what am I doing_? She felt certain Lord Petyr would not be satisfied with mere kisses much longer, that his touches would grow bolder still; that he had created the farce of lending her the book merely as a ruse to be alone with her, so that he might do more than merely kiss. Perhaps she was overreacting – yet even so, she felt quite certain of it.

            And what kind of an arrangement would that be? A lover, for certain, or else a suitor for her hand were the King not already the claimant of that. Marry Lord Petyr? She scoffed without hesitation. Yes, he had been most kind, she owed him much for that – but marriage? He was far too lowborn for such an idea. And she was still Sansa Stark, the blood of Winterfell; if Robb defeated the Lannisters in the field, if something happened to make Joffrey tire of her (both a terrifying and a glorious thought), she could do far better than a little lord from the _Fingers_.

            So for a solution to her ill, Sansa thought back to that which had always been her greatest teacher, the songs and stories she still thrived upon: how did a noble woman cast off a lover? She did it boldly, with a toss of her hair and a careless look to her eye – for she was in possession of a great power, to have a man that yearned after her, and she must be clear that she would not be moved. Yes, this sounded good, Sansa nodded to herself. She would boldly end this travesty before it could go any further. It was the only sane course of action.

            To this effect, Sansa sought out the man as he was passing through one of the courtyards that attached to the Godswood; it was not unusual for her to spend most of her time there, and so she was not regarded with any suspicion. Nor was her greeting to the lord more than polite. Lord Petyr stepped from the courtyard toward her, and his smile almost looked real this time when he saw her. Briefly, confusion, perhaps even _fear_ coursed through Sansa’s belly. But no, she had to be pitiless, like a lady in a song.

            “Lady Sansa. How well you look this afternoon.”

            Sansa merely curtseyed. “My lord.”

            “And how is your reading getting along?” He seemed almost as jovial, as pleased as he had been in his office that fateful day, his hands tucked easily at the small of his back, leaning on the heels of his black boots. “Is it as illuminating as you hoped?”

            “I fear the text is quite beyond me, my lord. I should like to return it to you.”

            Lord Petyr raised one eyebrow, which always looked slightly rakish on his face. It helped to steel Sansa’s courage. “Should you? I’d be happy as ever to explain it to you.”

            “No!” She was as startled as he by the outburst, her head sinking toward her shoulders in sudden nervousness. “That is…I cannot, in good conscience, take up any more of your valuable time. But if you have a few moments to spare, I should like to bring the tome to your study.”

            The lord clearly understood there was more to her words than the simplicity of returning the book – well, that was obvious to anyone who was a part of this mad, torrid, stupid affair. But the prospect of being once again alone with the girl seemed a fair one to him, for still he smiled. “I am always at your disposal, Lady Sansa,” and he insisted on taking her fingers in his hand (hers were cold, even in such warm weather) and bringing them to his lips. How she wished he would not do that! It was unfair, because he always lingered longer than he ought, than was appropriate, and gods knew who might observe them even here? And more than that, more than that…It made her arm go numb and tingling in a strange, not unpleasant way, and that was, as far as Sansa was concerned, equally bad.

            It was much later in the afternoon when she made her way to the study of the Master of Coin, the sun hanging low in the sky in a way not dissimilar to a coin, in fact; it almost seemed appropriate, all orange gold and glowing. It framed the lord’s face and made him appear as nothing more than a black shadow when she first entered the room. It made Sansa pause, her hand unsteady on the handle of the door – but she remembered to lock it in any case. This was not a conversation she wanted interrupted.

            When he heard her come in, Baelish picked his head up from the book he had been scratching away at (it struck Sansa she wasn’t actually sure what he did all day, how little she knew of him at all, beyond his mouth against hers – and she mustn’t start thinking of that now!). If he smiled, she could not see it in his silhouette; the lord made to stand, but she waved him down. “Please, my lord, don’t trouble yourself, I wish to be brief.”

            “Oh?” This close to him at the desk, his face was more discernable, the eyebrow raised over the silver eye, the perpetual smirk lying easy on his lips. “What is on your mind, my lady? What might I assist you with?”

            There was something about the small lord that made Sansa feel like a bird with ruffled feathers; the way he smiled at her, as if he took nothing seriously, least of all her. And just when she was mustering this irritation, she remembered the garden, and the strange deepness in his eyes, his lack of breath, how he pulled her to him as though compelled. For a moment, she faltered. _No. I’m the one in power. I make the decisions_.

            Imperious, like the Queen Regent, like some courtesan who had men falling over for her, Sansa tilted her chin up, blue eyes going icy. “I’m sorry, my lord, if I misled you, but I feel this must stop. We must not see each other any longer.”

            His face, as Sansa could see it, was still, not a twitch, not a hair out of place; except, perhaps, a flexing of his fingers along the desk. “Oh?” He smoothed one hand down his damask doublet and smiled again. “Is that what we were doing? Seeing one another?”

            Sansa felt her lips pursing; he was trying to throw her off track. “Whatever you wish to call it, my lord, it is inappropriate.” Before he might interrupt and charm her again, Sansa pressed on. “This sort of….conduct can only be expected between intendeds. If I ever gave you the wrong impression, I do beg your pardon, though I’m sure you must see the situation is impossible.”

            His smile remained, though it was tighter. “Please, Lady Sansa, enlighten me – what is the _situation_ , as you call it?”

            He was jesting, surely? Sansa actually scoffed a little. “Why, that I might ever consent to marry you.” That time, she was sure, the lord’s fingertips did flex along the top of his desk, if only for a moment. “I do thank you for your…generosity towards me, as well as your attentions, flattering as they were; but I am a Stark of Winterfell. I could never sully myself or my family so, to create a union with a man with no family, no background, no history. It’s insupportable, I…” Sansa lost her voice. The charming smile on Lord Baelish’s face, tight as it was, had totally vanished. She felt her stomach sinking very low. She felt, suddenly, as though she had made a very grievous error indeed, though she was uncertain how she could possibly have done so.

            There was no light to the Mockingbird’s eyes, no color except grey, and he seemed uniquely dangerous – but surely that was impossible, Lord Petyr, dangerous? Why did she feel like trembling? And his voice was low as well, not at all jovial, more like gravel, or something worse, something darker. “Did I give you the impression I was giving you _chase_?” Sansa’s lips parted to give, at best, a meager response, but the Master of Coin pressed on before she could. “As I recall, it was _you_ who first expressed interest in _me_ , in my solar. I did not invite you in, I did not _entice_ you; you walked in, would not leave, and _kissed me_. You’ve certainly never attempted to stop me since. I assumed this was merely a pleasurable dalliance, not a _proposal of marriage_.” The air around him seemed to shiver, to tremble to his will, and Sansa felt far smaller than she had a moment ago with her nose in the air. “Make no mistake, I did not _choose_ you, Sansa Stark.”

            This was not how the conversation was intended to go.

            Sansa barely had the awareness to turn her back to him when she felt the tears stinging her blue eyes – she couldn’t give the man she’d just rejected the satisfaction of seeing her _cry_ , surely. And why should she cry at all? Hadn’t she just made plain that she did not want him? But Sansa no longer felt like an imperious lady in a song, as awesome as a Targaryen, as fearless as the Queen Regent. She suddenly felt very small and foolish. What had she been thinking, to behave like that? And worse, whatever her intentions had been, to not be wanted was….hurtful. Which was of course the entire point, how incredibly stupid she had been! And more than that, to hear Lord Petyr say he did not want her, it bruised her within her chest in a way she had not expected; almost as if she had enjoyed those stolen moments in equal measure to how they frightened her, almost as if she…she wanted…

            She could try to hide her tears, but she could not stop the sounds of her crying, even as she attempted to muffle them in her lace handkerchief. _I’m such a child still, playing at love affairs as gamblers play at dice_. Over this sound, however, she heard a groan from behind her – from Lord Baelish, as if deeply irritated, or perhaps even in pain. Sansa labored to control her tears and only succeeded in sobbing all the harder for it, out of breath, face red. She heard the scraping of his chair as it was pushed away from the desk – and then gasped slightly to feel his cool fingers on her shoulders.

            “But I would.” Sansa tried to catch her breath, pulling her face from her handkerchief, but it barely seemed to help, like her lungs no longer worked at all. “I would always choose you.” She didn’t know what was happening. Everything was tingling, or was it numb, or was it neither? All she could do was follow his lead, submit as his hands turned her around to face him, lean into his palm as it cupped her cheek. It was suddenly of the utmost importance that she please Petyr, that he continue to touch her and as much as possible. The other hand pulled her closer, played first with the ends of her hair and then settled at the middle of her back as she was brought close to him for a kiss.

            This kiss was not the most hungry they had engaged in, yet it was somehow more than the others. Sansa’s fingers, for the first time, came behind his ears to run through the close cropped hair behind them, to run down to his neck and shoulder. She wrapped herself closer, even made small whimpering sounds as his grip became tighter on her. Yes, that was good, possession and desire – for _her_ – was all she could want. He moved, and she moved; one step backward, then another. It made their mouths disconnect for a moment, and Sansa pressed forward to catch his lips in greater need. And did the lord make a sound of his own as his lithe fingers held her tightly at her waist? Gods, how she suddenly hoped so, wanted what she could not understand, could not guess at nor comprehend. But Baelish seemed to know, and how Sansa yearned for his guidance in this, took it gladly.

            They were by the desk again, the man sinking back down into his chair. Sansa followed, guided by his hands, so that suddenly she found herself straddling his lap, skirts rising to the knee, breath hitching in her throat. Lord Baelish looked at her, held his hand beneath her jawline, almost as though he was uncertain of the reality of the situation – but he did not really hesitate, bringing their mouths back together, soft and yet very sure. There was a part of Sansa, a small voice she well knew, that seemed to cry out _What am I doing_? But this she quite thoroughly ignored. The pain, the pain of all these wretched months, eased under the pleasure of the man’s hands, the man’s mouth, his eyes, his breath, his skin, his scent. Everything felt both sharp and muddled simultaneously, and Sansa would do _anything_ if it meant the pain would numb for a moment and the pleasure continue.

            More strongly than the other times they’d kissed, there was a heat building deep in her core, between her legs, a throbbing in time to the beating of her heart, and she was too caught up in the moment to be scared by it. Almost as if he knew, the lord’s hand ran down her arm to her hip, stroked first the silk that covered her thigh, then lifted the hem of the skirt away so his palm could rest on her leg, where the white stocking ended and the white flesh began. Sansa gasped a very little, but he shushed her with his quiet, low voice, quickly back to more kisses. It seemed a little strange that they weren’t speaking at all. Should there not be apologies, or words of devotion – though, to be completely honest, Sansa still wasn’t sure the latter was appropriate. What had just happened? She had rejected him, he had spurned her, and then he had confessed a desire for her to stop her crying, a desire she was making plain was returned as she scooted just a little closer on his lap, closer to the warmth of him, the subtle strength of wiry arms that fit her slender frame so very well…

            The lord’s hand did not rest on her leg, but crept higher, turned inward to the softest part of the skin. Sansa gasped again, but did nothing to stop him, would do nothing to stop him; how she needed this approval, how she kissed him even as her legs fell a little wider open, not even knowing what it was he planned. The next gasp was more a hiss, startled, unsure, as his fingers softly moved over her smallclothes, barely touched her but found her unmistakably hot, wet…Petyr’s eyes darkened, half-closed and two fingers pressed a little harder against the girl. A whine escaped her and Sansa found herself leaning in to everything, an arm wrapping his shoulder to better anchor herself. Still they said nothing. It was madness – and yet his fingers began a small circle over her in a way that made her nerves jump every time he pressed just so. Sansa’s gasps grew more desperate, her lips parted, and the only thing to do was to let him take her mouth again, and again, and again…

            _Oh_ …The heat built, their tongues a soft stroke against one another, and the movements by now had so soaked through her silken underclothes that his fingers were slipping from her. This did not stop Baelish; he instead slid them beneath the cloth and Sansa whined much more aloud this time. _What am I doing, what am I doing, I said he wouldn’t be my lover_ \- He must not stop now. Her hips were moving with his hand, haltingly, unsure, but moving of their own accord, chasing _something_. If she did not kiss him, did not suck at his lip or flick her tongue against his own, it was because her forehead was pressed against the man’s, both becoming slick with sweat, both mouths open in order to search for breath. The little noises would not stop, Petyr’s breathing was becoming much heavier, the twitching, electric feeling growing stronger-

            Insanity, and yet something about it felt so right, so natural. His fingers dipped lower, toward her entrance, and Sansa fell forward, had to press her mouth to the hinge of his jaw in a small attempt to muffle her cry. Her toes curled, her fingers tightened on him, and her legs shook as they were held open before the man. There was a strong scent to the air, cloyingly musky and sweet…Oh gods. Sansa tried to close her legs, but her position on the man’s lap made that impossible. His long fingers were now damp with her, and after a few softer strokes, he resettled his palm on her thigh so that she felt the sheen of it, and felt, too, his breath slowly even out against her ear. She was so tired – she ought to move, but she couldn’t, could only collapse over him further…

            Sansa’s voice broke when she finally felt able to use it again. “I’m sorry.” She had to say it, it was what she was most trained to say.

            “Hush now.” Petyr’s voice cracked slightly, too, she felt his chin shift against her as he sought out a carafe within the room. “It’s over with.”

            Lady Sansa waited, but the man said nothing else. Was _she_ meant to break the silence? What could she possibly say, when he’d just explored her sex more thoroughly than she ever had? She tried to believe what she had just done was shameful, but it didn’t seem to touch her, as if it was being said to someone else wholly unrelated to her; the shame didn’t seem to matter in this moment, with the spasms dying off, with the heat that flushed her cheeks and the sheen of sweat and the sheen of-

            And so she had failed utterly to cast off Lord Baelish, in fact knew she would be pulled to him again – and likely very soon. But still, he did not hurry her off his lap, but rather stroked her idly. From this position, her head was above his, and he could have pressed his face between her small breasts if he wanted; there was a queer thought. Sansa brought her face level with his, resting their foreheads together again. There was something comforting about the closeness, the sharing of breath. She could still taste him on her lips. Hesitantly, she whispered, “W-will you help me with the Valyrian in the book? I-I’ll try again.” His grey eyes caught hers – and his lips curled upward in a dangerous smile.


End file.
